


please don't throw your love away

by aortaxx



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sexual Content, i guess that's it?, yeah sounds about right djhfkjhdk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 01:05:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19096585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aortaxx/pseuds/aortaxx
Summary: set in an alternate branch of the universe in which the avengers already take thanos down on titan (like they should have)!!! stephen has viewed 14'000'605 different futures and seen tony stark in all of them, but now he is making sure that the one they were able to achieve will be the right one for not only the universe, but tony himself too





	please don't throw your love away

**Author's Note:**

> hey everybody! back with another ironstrange fic, who would have thought? i took a break from my one-shot series to write up this thing and it's a bit messy, but i have taken a liking on it! i was always interested in the possibility of what would have happened if tony and stephen had time to talk and be colleagues (or more heh) post-infinity war and so this is what i did? i hope it makes sense and i hope you will like it, comments and kudos are appreciated as always <3 + recommended song is 'who shot cupid?' by juice wrld

Tony has always been a fan of numbers, a basic requirement for an engineer. It’s a universe so grand and yet so few people are truly able to grasp the true size of it, so when Stephen Strange (self-proclaimed wizarding guard of NYC and apparently reality as a whole) spits out a very grand and specific number at him in a life or death situation, he’s bound to have that burned in the back of his mind. 14’000’605 different futures out of infinity and only one of them in which everyone wins and they managed to find it and realize it against Thanos and all other odds.

Sometimes he truly wonders what Strange had seen in those minutes (or had it been hours?) he spent floating on Titan, had twisting and shape quacking in the face of what was to come. Ever since that particular… _assignment_ they accomplished all together, he had asked the sorcerer many times about what he had seen, but he always remained tight-lipped about it. Something about the universe possibly breaking apart and a honourable mention to Schrödinger’s cat along the lines before Tony had tuned out.

So he would even dare to call it _strange_ that only when he’s stood in the rain somewhere on a street in New York City, staring at neon signs offering discounted drinks after midnight, Stephen Strange is willing to give him an answer.

“I would not go in there if I was you.”

“Oh yeah? And why not, Doctor Houdini?”

There’s the pull of lips again, like a zipper over a mouth full of secrets that’s just aching to burst right open— Tony’s fingers just grip the door handle a little tighter before he breaks.

“3’084’364.”

“… 'You giving me your number, Doc?”

“It’s the number of futures in which you die of alcohol poisoning. Or acute liver failure due to prolonged alcohol abuse.”

Tony’s hand finally falls away from the handle, the neon sign flickering in their faces, but Strange’s expression doesn’t change the slightest bit. He has all the serious lines on his face that Tony desperately tries to avoid with overpriced skincare products he uses every night, so Tony knows he’s not joking (and part of him doesn’t even wish he was).

“... That has to be a record somewhere, at least.”

“Just go home instead, Stark. We didn’t win that war for you to waste your one life like this.”

The engineer steps away from the bar’s entry, but remains under the small outputs of roofs offered as a refuge by the line of buildings, noticing how untouched the sorcerer appeared to be from the rain. He’s cold and he’s curious now, but he’s also aching (more inside than outside, admittedly). So they stare at each other some more as Tony tried to come up with a smart comment to throw back, but curiosity always manages to win over his snarky remarks eventually.

“I will go home if you give me another number.”

Now the other hero’s stare becomes calculating instead of just this cold, stone-hard gaze that scolds him for even standing here, but he seems to consider yielding as he steps to Tony under the roofs. The engineer raises an eyebrow at the other man, before the former surgeon sighs.

“Ask me for a number and then I will decided whether or not to give it up to you.”

That’s a chance Tony would very much like to take, but he also knows that he most likely only has one shot at this, so he runs a shaky hand through his wet hair, slicking it back before looking at the other hero one more time, stare just as hard.

“In how many of your futures did you see Pepper leave me?”

“… 11’455’009.”

“... Well, that’s _kinda_ high, over 81%. Not too much of a shocker, though.”

He didn’t even have to do a lot of math there, but it really doesn’t come to him as a surprise. It was only a matter of time, even if they had both survived Thanos’ snap that Pepper would have left him eventually. Strange looks at him (was that _pity_ in his eyes?) and Tony laughs, laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world, but humor had always been his most prevalent coping mechanism anyways.

“Can I open a portal to your home now?”

The wizard really seemed very intent on getting him off these streets and away from this bar and last time it had been Rhodey to save him from this hole, so he let it be Stephen Strange tonight. He has his number and somehow, it pains and numbs him at the very same time— that he could finally put a number on how unlovable he is was comforting in the strangest ( _ha_ ,) way.

“You’re a doctor, right? Do you know if people still die of broken hearts nowadays?”

It’s bitter, but he laughs it off and swallows it right down with the rest of his heartache and for a brief moment, he’s sure he sees a bit of sympathy on the other man’s face and he hates it.

“I used to be a neurosurgeon, not a cardiac surgeon. Now go home and rest. You look like you are in dire need of it.”

A moment later, Tony stumbles into his warm and dry bedroom, hitting his shin on the edge of his bed and falling into it, still drenched from head to toe, but the sheets smell of lavender and it was comfortable, so he falls asleep and dreams of Titan and a glaring red coat following him on it.

 

[*]

 

It only takes a couple of days until Tony finds himself in front of the same bar again and again, Stephen Strange stood right by him as he was about to enter and it just elicits a sigh at this point. The sorcerer’s eyes are still bright in the night and his gaze as piercing as ever, but Tony’s grip was firmer this time.

“Here to send me to bed again, Mister Sandman?”

“I was going to offer you food instead this time. I do have some civil sense in me.”

It wasn’t even a friendly offer, but it was still an offer nonetheless. Tony knows someone has called his phone for the third time now and he has been playing with the thought of turning it off, but now he is busied otherwise, because once more, Stephen Strange makes him halt right at the edge of jumping off. Now he still has one hand on the railing— and he’s very sure that the wizard was betting on the faith of that hand alone (unless his cloak could be used as a magic carpet, then there’s no way out for him anyways).

“Alright, I’ll join for another number. You seem real interested in making this a tradition.”

“You are impossible. Be thankful I arrived on an empty stomach.”

And once it is taken as an agreeing word, they take off to get Indian takeaway at a store down the street and at least it’s not raining tonight, but Tony Stark still feels like eating cheap takeaway food out of a box on a rooftop of some shabby old factory building downtown isn’t exactly him at his best. But instead, he watches Strange eat his food in a calm and almost simple-minded manner, one bit after the other in-between risking glances up at the (actually quite beautiful) night sky. His mind was driving down an entirely different one-way street though, which the sorcerer only notices once he opens his mouth again.

“How many of these futures show us fucking after this delicious Indian food?”

He sees the sorcerer choke on rice as graceless as any other human would and it makes him laugh, right out of his ribcage and it’s very freeing (even if he might have thrown away a big chance at his still-open future in front of him). Strange glares at him and Tony just smiles back, probably more smirk than friendliness, in all honesty.

“’Didn’t take you for a prude, Doc. How interesting.”

“You are just downright rotten. I will _not_ answer to that.”

“Oh? All that tells me is that there is at least one future which shows me taking you home tonight.”

Maybe it’s the cold air, maybe it’s the dreaded hole that Tony feels opening up inside of him with each passing day, each passing night with every new nightmare. The look of surprise has faded from the sorcerer’s face and so has the brief crossing of disgust. All that’s left was a gaze that spoke so much _honesty_ , Tony’s not sure if he’s ever heard another piece of truth in his life before (and he blames it all on those strikingly bright and open eyes).

“… 17’929.”

Tony gives a low whistle, because that sounds heavenly compared to the weeks of utter loneliness he had sustained (completely _willingly_ of course), poking into a piece of duck breast as he eyed the former surgeon from the side again, an eyebrow raised.

“Well, not as much as I thought, but we can always change that, of course.”

“I am _not_ coming home with you tonight.”

“But you’re not using ' _never_ ', see? Because the only one who is able to find me here from the looks of it, is you.”

The sorcerer sets his box aside and stares at the far-away stars in the sky again as if he didn’t hear the other hero, but ends up sighing as he looks back at Tony, eyes still glazed with that shine of pity the engineer wishes he could punch out of it. But violence wouldn’t help anyone either way, so he just stabs the next piece of meat additionally forceful as he tries to pick it up, chewing audibly.

“I can always call Colonel Rhodes. We both know he would come as soon as I notify him.”

“See, you could have done that from the start, but instead you’re here. With me. Eating cheap takeaway food on a rooftop in NYC after midnight for no apparent reason. Besides trying to keep me out of that actually really good bar. That begs the question why you would _care_ , though?”

“… Do you always talk this much during a meal?”

He shrugs in return, now setting aside his own box and joining the sorcerer in looking up at the stars. His mission for pity sex had failed, so now he’s just left staring over the city, at least until he feels the other man’s knee brush against his own and their eyes meet— which makes him think he might have another chance at this.

“So, still no midnight sex after a midnight snack?”

They barely know each other, but Tony considers that a good thing right now. It’s been a while since he’s had sex without the strings, the emotions (even if he didn’t miss it as much as he pretended to). Stephen Strange seems oddly calm after the second time he’s asked and he’s not too sure what to do with that information until he stands up and abruptly opens up a portal into Tony’s bedroom (once again).

“You are _insufferable_.”

“Which I’m sure is code for ‘ _I’ll join you_ ’.”

A part of him is surprised when the sorcerer _does_ follow him right through the portal, but another part of him is also sure that there was a reason why the other hero had even picked him up at the lowest low when he literally did not have to. They were barely even work colleagues (who survived a life-or-death scenario together, but still). But if he couldn’t have alcohol to numb everything, he’s sure a dose of (hopefully good and rough) sex will achieve something similar.

 

[*]

 

The sex is good, good enough to really take the worst edge off everything and take Tony right out of his head, especially once he finds out that Stephen is easily inclined to give in to adrenaline-induced thoughts as well and Tony takes a liking on that side of him. He notices a few things, how much the sorcerer’s hand shake whenever he does anything with them (and the angrier the grip, the harder they shake). They don’t kiss, either (not that Tony minds too much). The other man also didn’t seem fond of sex from the front, but Tony could deal with that just fine too.

What really rattles him the most though, is not when the other man fucks him until his knees start buckling and he needs to be held up by the hips, not when he has to bite his lip bloody to avoid begging or screaming too much or even being asked questions so filthy, he’s sure that the sorcerer was reciting an erotica novel from a few centuries ago— it’s the small touches in-between, so unbearingly _gentle_ in contradiction to everything else. The brief moments in which Stephen’s hands stop shaking to just hold him, but it’s never long enough for Tony to be able to complain about it and it genuinely awes him (not that he would ever say that, though).

But there are a few indicators that Stephen didn’t have a lot of experience with other men and Tony enjoys it utterly much. He would never shame him for it, but it is fun to tease the other hero, especially when it spurred on the rough reactions a little bit.

“Do tell… How many futures in— _fuck_ , which I’m topping...?”

“Do you _ever_ shut up?”

There’s a particularly hard thrust from behind that leaves the ends of Tony’s nerves singing and dancing, trembling as much as the hands touching him. The fact that he’s so naturally curious really has him cursing now, a hand right at the end of his spine, not _pressing_ but very much making its presence and weight known against him and he’s sure he gasps when he cums not much later, but he’s beautifully lost for that very moment, vision blurry and nervous system fuzzy.

“Still with me?”

There’s a cold cloth on his forehead and he is too weak and fucked-out to fight the hand that feeds him, lets Stephen wipe him down and he’s keeping track of how many times they fuck, just because numbers are safe and he really needs that sense of security. When Stephen has finished cleaning him, he lays next to him and it stuns Tony, but then _again_ — he was too weak to deny the trembling hold that has now risen up to the elbows, a tremor throughout half of Stephen’s arms and yet he feels safer and more at ease with not being alone.

 

[*]

 

It becomes a regular thing, both the fucking and the numbers and both gives Tony an outside sense of stability he could really use, felt alright with receiving because it was that _unconventional_ (which he would just say with a laugh).

“How many in which you don’t become king of wizards?”

“If you’re referring to the famed title of Sorcerer Supreme, then it’s 8’356’199.”

They’re eating burgers tonight and Tony laughs as good as he could through a mouthful, ignoring the roll of Stephen’s eyes as he has a bite himself. Tony usually pays for the food and Stephen goes to get it, mostly because he knows that the Sanctum is as wealthy as a non-profit organisation (and even those get by easier in most cases).

“Otherwise you would just be an asshole that cuts people open for money, so look at it on the bright side.”

“Stark, there are _infinite_ possibilities to what one can be.”

“How eloquent of you, Schrödinger.”

On certain days, Tony doesn’t know exactly how to feel about the fact that there are numerous other versions of himself are out there, living better lives than he is right now. But he also remembers that Stephen told him that he died before he even got to celebrate his thirtieth birthday in 5’474’102 futures, so he guesses he might even deem himself _lucky_ , taking another bite of his burger before glancing over at the sorcerer again, who looks at him almost thoughtfully in return.

“Sometimes I really do wonder why you are so _insistent_ on torturing yourself with these possibilities.”

Tony stares at him through his last bite, taking the wrapping paper slowly while not losing Stephen’s eye before starting to fold it up into tiny squares, a coping mechanism he has always used to fill time and busy his hand when he wasn’t able to be in his lab. It’s a question that runs deeper than he would like a conversation over burgers and fries to go, but this whole… _arrangement_ was strange ( _ha_ again,) enough already, but he guesses he will just answer as self-loathing as he would anyways.

“’Guess it’s nice to know that at least some version of myself out there is happy with his life. Also makes me continuing on with living regardless seem a lot more selfless, if you ask me.”

“It also makes you seem a lot more depressed, if you ask _me_.”

Now the engineer just stares at the other hero, who seems diligently unaware of the emotional baggage his words carried, how Tony looked at him as if he’s been hit down the head before reaching over and stealing a (now cold) fry from Stephen’s plate, turning his head away to gaze out the window.

“… Well, thank god I didn’t ask you.”

 

[*]

 

Once they start kissing during sex, Tony also finds that Stephen’s tongue is loosened the more they do, the more they touch and lick and suck, the more talkative he is during pillow talk (at least the times Tony doesn’t straight-up pass out afterwards). It becomes a new hobby of him, making Stephen recite various numbers until he just mumbles them in the crook of his neck or the valley of his breastbone right before they fall asleep.

But tonight, Stephen had allowed Tony to _see_ him from the front for the first time during sex. He let Tony touch the expanse of bare flesh, scarring and muscle in its rawest forms and Tony was sure he fell in love right then and there, with the shake that he now felt run through Stephen’s entire body against him and even under him, Tony feels very much in control. He _forgets_ that no one should trust him with their heart, because he will destroy it without touching it at all (or too much) and for the first time, he lets Stephen touch the reactor in the middle of his chest too, bask in the soft glow it shines, the shadows the sorcerer’s cheekbones cast.

“Something I think about though, is whether or not you looked into this future as well… Is it always pre-dispositioned from birth like a damn…— _ah_ , fucking fast-food order or does it just… branch off certain moments?”

Stephen looks at him, sweat on the arch of his brow and it glistens in the faint light emitted by Tony’s chest and the city lights outside the window as he breathes hard, probably in disbelief that Tony asked this question in the middle of their fucking. He grabs a hold of Tony’s right thigh and it steals his breath for a moment, right until their hipbones clink together almost painfully, leaving Tony’s nails clawing at the bones in Stephen’s shoulders.

“I never looked further into this future than…— _Vishanti_ , our victory against Thanos.”

Tony is fed the other answer later, after they’ve both exhausted themselves onto their backs in Tony’s bed, breathing heavily and sweaty, but blissfully high off their afterglow (and Tony doesn’t even really mind the closeness of Stephen’s body against his own this time).

“... And nothing is pre-dispositioned in this universe or any other. Everything is open to change.”

“So, then what do you think my chances are in this one?”

The sorcerer glances over at him, turning a little more on his side to catch Tony’s meaning, but the engineer wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was staring at the ceiling, right where the grand windows and the dark paint meet, as if his own construction could give him his own answer.

“Your chances for what?”

Now he turns to him, a smile on his face. It wasn’t the usual flamboyant smile he casts at galas or other social events, even at meetings at times. But it also wasn’t the genuine smile he casts amongst his team members from time to time or when he’s finished a new invention he has been excited about for weeks or months. It was a sad smile, one that spoke of melancholy and other dreaded subjects.

“I don’t know, maybe happiness or some other sappy shit? Though I’m pretty sure that plane took off a long time ago and even though I have more than one private jet, it’s still not the same plane.”

In reply, Stephen gives him the same hard look he had given him the first time he stopped him from walking through that damn door into the damn bar to throw his life away (for the second time, no less). Tony slowly turns to look at him over the small hill of the pillow under them and now he’s suddenly impossibly _aware_ of how close they actually were.

“A private jet is still _more_ than what most people have. Don’t throw that away, Tony.”

The use of his first name (Stephen had always called him by his last name without exception before this moment, even during sex) combined with the soft touch of Stephen’s fingertips tracing over his ribcage to wrap his arm around him makes him break. He thought it was Stephen who had yielded, both to Tony and Tony’s destructive tendencies towards any and all human relationships, but now it was Tony himself who’s caving in and his voice shakes worse than Stephen’s entire body as he answers, fingers brushing Stephen’s own:

“Alright. I won’t. _Promise_.”

**Author's Note:**

> i really like this idea... i might write more set in this particular branch of the universe, but i hope you like this either way! if you wish to chat or have any questions, feel free to ask in the comments or talk to me on tumblr (@aortaxx)!


End file.
